Page 85 of Cheater and the Saint
21
Leo
My dreams fucking sucked that night. The fight with Saint had pissed me off at first, but once the anger faded, I felt empty. I hated not having him beside me. We hadn’t slept apart since we got together. For about an hour, I debated on whether to go in there to him and apologize. He hadn’t meant to upset me. It was a simple question that most normal people would’ve been able to answer with no issue.
But it was different for me.
Admitting I’d been disowned by my parents for being bisexual was hard. Not only because I’d have to relive it all again, but also because of the shame. And Ihatedthe shame. It told me I wasn’t good enough, that I wasn’t normal.
The bisexual flag tattooed on my inner bicep was supposed to help me feel pride in who I was, and I did to an extent. But when I recalled my dad’s hateful words and remembered the punches to my face and body, I felt disgusting.
No matter how much I loved the man I’d become, there were moments when that self-hatred returned.
It was like a demon I couldn’t escape. The only way to beat it was to turn and face it, and there was no way I could ever go back home and face it. To face him after all these years.
When I finally fell asleep, I dreamed I was sixteen again and lying with Jimmy Brooks. He’d had such a cute smile, and I poked his cheek before leaning in to kiss him. Then I heard my dad screaming at the top of his lungs before I was pulled off the ground and slammed against the wall.
“No son of mine will be a little cocksucker. Ya hear me, boy?”
I’d woken with a gasp and buried my tear-stained face into the pillow.
The dream after that was even worse. In all of them, my dad kicked my ass, all while screaming bigoted slurs at me. Sometimes he hit me, sometimes he hit Jimmy, but they all ended with me fleeing the house like I’d done that day so many years ago.
When morning came, I was thankful for the reprieve from the nightmares. Usually, I hated being awake that early, but I didn’t want to go back to sleep. The sound of rain hitting the window was all I heard as I laid there.
Fitting, I thought. A dreary day for a dreary mood.
After getting out of bed and taking a piss, I walked down the hall.
Saint’s door was open, but he wasn’t inside. I continued toward the living room and was greeted by gray light streaming in through the open blinds. It looked much darker outside than it should and seemed earlier in the morning than it actually was. A soft rumbling of thunder echoed in the distance and rain fell harder, whooshing against the window.
There was no classical music playing, no show playing on the History Channel, and no typing of fingers on a keyboard.
Saint wasn’t home.
There was, however, a note by the coffee pot.
L,
Went to the gym. Be back later.
-Saint
I ran my fingers across his neat handwriting, feeling an ache deep in my chest. Only Saint would think to leave a note. Everyone else would send a text or something. But not him. Not Mr. Organized with all his lists and routines.
Thunder boomed as lightning lit up the room, and the rain poured harder, hitting the window like a thousand bullets.
He’d told me he swam to clear his head. The fact he’d gone out in such piss-pour weather said a lot about his mindset. A mindset I was certain I’d caused.
Why did I yell at him?
“Fuck,” I said on an exhale, scratching at the back of my head. I didn’t like the way I felt. I hated hurting his feelings, and I hated keeping shit from him.
My heart nearly leapt out of my chest when my phone rang. That bubble of excitement vanished when I saw it was Heath calling and not Saint.
“Hey, man,” I answered, not in the mood for insults this early in the morning. Plus, I hadn’t had coffee yet. I filled the machine with water and started some, though.
“Hey,” Heath repeated, and his tone made me stop what I was doing and hold the phone closer to my ear. “How are you?”
